


The Agent

by orphan_account



Category: The Avengers (2012)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Editor!Phil, Getting Together, Insecurity, M/M, Misunderstandings, Phil is oblivious, Pining, Secret Identity, Superhero/Vigilante!Phil, writer!Clint
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-07-06
Updated: 2013-07-06
Packaged: 2017-12-17 20:07:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,352
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/871470
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It had started out as a joke. </p><p>“You’re probably a secret superhero,” Clint had laughed, grinning at Phil. “I mean, there’s no way someone can really be as mild mannered and unobtrusive as you without having some sort of badass double life where you unleash all of your pent up frustrations.” </p><p>A month later, Phil had found himself brushing up on his rusty martial arts skills, and, well, if he happened to have saved a teenage boy from a nasty mugging a week later that was just because he was in the area. After that, saving people just sort of became something he did. </p><p>And the fact that it was much easier to romance Clint Barton from behind a suave façade and debonair costume had absolutely nothing to do with it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Agent

**Author's Note:**

> Trigger Warnings: minor violence and a brief, non-graphic scene of attempted rape.

It had started out as a joke. 

“You’re probably a secret superhero,” Clint had laughed, grinning at Phil. “I mean, there’s no way someone can really be as mild mannered and unobtrusive as you without having some sort of badass double life where you unleash all of your pent up frustrations.” 

A month later, Phil had found himself brushing up on his rusty martial arts skills, and, well, if he happened to have saved a teenage boy from a nasty mugging a week later that was just because he was in the area. After that, saving people just sort of became something he did. 

And the fact that it was much easier to romance Clint Barton from behind a suave façade and debonair costume had absolutely nothing to do with it. 

\---

THE AGENT STRIKES AGAIN! The masked vigilante known as “The Agent” has once again brought a criminal to justice. Last night just after midnight, the NYPD was alerted to a break in at the Atlantic National Bank. Expecting armed confrontation, over a dozen NYPD officers rushed to the scene – only to find the two would-be criminals already handcuffed to the bank’s door handles. However, that wasn’t all they found. If the trademark handcuffs weren’t enough to give the vigilante away, the simple business card bearing only “The Agent” printed in Times New Roman font leaves no doubt… (Continued on A7). 

\---

“Hey, Coulson! Did you hear about the bank thing last night?” Clint asked as he slid elegantly into the seat across from Phil at their customary table at the Royal Grounds coffee shop. 

“I saw the headline in the Post, but that’s about it. Why?” Phil replied, doing his best to sound utterly nonchalant. 

“Oh, come on. I know you’re a sucker for superhero stories. Why are you so against this ‘Agent’ guy?” Clint sighed, looking over at Phil with those gorgeous blue eyes of his. “I thought all of the recent news about him would be right up your alley.” 

“I’m not against him,” Phil protested, pulling out his battered laptop and booting it up. “I just haven’t had the time to really read about him or anything yet.”

“You _always_ have time for superheroes, Coulson,” Clint whined, a hint of a pout on his lips. 

“He’s no Captain America,” Phil shrugged, typing in his password and not looking up at Clint. “He’s probably just in it for the attention, anyways.” 

“Ah, yes, go and ruin all of the romanticism, will you?” Clint sighed, propping up his elbows on the table and folding his hands under his chin. “I suppose this is why I’m the writer and you’re the editor.” 

“I need to be able to ground you in at least a little bit of reality,” Phil replied, an almost smile on his face. 

“Incorrect!” Clint exclaimed, grinning. “You ground my _stories_ in reality. If I didn’t remind you to eat on a regular basis you’d work yourself to death.” 

“I survived a whole twenty nine years before I knew you, you know,” Phil snorted, peering over the top of his laptop at the unruly author sitting across from him. 

“Barely,” Clint retorted, rolling his eyes. “Chinese take-out once every two days and enough caffeine to kill a small elephant is not an existence.” 

Phil resolutely ignored him in favor of pulling up the most recently edited chapter of _Twenty-Seven Blank Letters_ (still a working title, of course), Clint’s latest novel. 

“Whatever,” the writer sighed, standing up from the small table and grabbing his wallet out of his jacket pocket. “I’m going to get something to drink. Do you want your usual?” 

“Sure,” Phil replied, still not looking up from his laptop. “Remember to not let them put whip cream on it this time.”

“Extra whip, got it,” Clint said teasingly, already halfway to the resister. 

Phil ducked further behind his laptop in an effort to hide his smile. He really shouldn’t find Clint so adorable, but he did. The fact that his writing was absolutely brilliant helped, too. His most recent book – _The Sixth Stage of Grief_ – had been nominated for a Pulitzer, after all. Of course, Clint always insisted that the judges wouldn’t have given his novel a second glance if it hadn’t been for Phil’s brilliant editing. Phil had tried to argue against that, but he’d never managed to win. 

The editor sighed as he watched Clint discreetly as the younger man chatted with the cashier. Phil was never sure if Clint was actually aware of how much he flirted with people. When they’d first met, Phil had thought it was just some sort of annoying, macho arrogance, but he’d slowly come to realize that Clint literally couldn’t talk to someone without flirting with them at least a little bit. Of course, he hadn’t flirted with Phil since their very first meeting when Phil had – rather harshly – shot him down, thinking that the author was making fun of him. Clint had profusely apologized, saying that the flirting was completely unconscious and harmless, and had since then gone out of his way to never flirt with Phil. 

Phil kind of wished he had a time machine so that he could go smack some sense into his past self. 

“So,” Clint’s smooth voice broke in, jolting Phil form his thoughts. “Now that I’ve properly prepared myself with copious amounts of caffeine and the cell phone number of the cute barista, you can rip my writing to shreds.” 

“I’m not going to rip it to shreds,” Phil complained, scowling at Clint. 

“So I can actually see more black ink than red ink in the word document?” Clint asked tentatively, eyes wide and really way, way bluer than they needed to be. 

“I wouldn’t go _that_ far…” Phil replied, handing the laptop over to Clint. 

“Great,” Clint groaned, eyes scanning the edits on the first page. 

“I actually don’t have any major edits for you on this chapter,” Phil continued, ignoring Clint’s commentary. “A lot of this has to do with general syntax and flow. I was kind of confused about Pamela’s motives for leaving her sister behind when she ran away, though.” 

“Oh, that’s because she’s concerned about the way Anna’s already mostly assimilated into the Ashi’an culture,” Clint began, getting out his notepad and cheap bic pen, the one whose cap he had a horrible (and distracting) habit of chewing on. “She doesn’t want to risk…”

It was another hour and a half before both Phil and Clint were even remotely satisfied with the edits they’d started making. The few sips of Phil’s latte that still remained had long gone cold, but he was still feeling a slight buzz (probably because he always added more extra shots than were strictly necessary). He looked over at Clint who was still typing rapidly on the laptop, and he couldn’t help but be momentarily transfixed by the author’s long fingers. 

“Hey, Coulson,” Clint said suddenly, breaking Phil out of his trance. 

“Yes?” Phil replied, blinking at Clint. 

“I was thinking about my next novel,” the author began, tapping his pen distractingly against his lower lip. “You know, because this one is almost finished – you just need to edit the last chapter and then review the composite – and I was thinking, what if I did one about a vigilante like The Agent?”

“Well, I suppose you could do that,” Phil replied slowly, a shiver traveling down his spine at the thought of Clint finding him interesting enough to base one of his novels off of him. “It’s a little different from what you normally do, but you could probably pull it off. It’s your writing career, after all. You can write what you want. I’m not saying it’ll get published, but…”

“Thanks,” Clint said, smiling softly in that way that never failed to make Phil’s stomach tie itself into knots. 

“You know, I didn’t actually do anything,” Phil pointed out, hoping that Clint didn’t notice the way the tips of his ears went red. 

“Sure you did,” Clint replied, his smile turning a little devious. “You agreed to read an entire novel of me gushing about a vigilante who you already said ‘is no Captain America’.” 

“I’m sure the way you write him will make him much more tolerable,” Phil said, trying not to trip over his own tongue. “Plus, you know me – no one can live up to Captain America in my books.” 

“I better get to work then,” Clint responded, as he stood up from the table, gathering his things. “I’ll see you on Wednesday, then?”

“As usual,” Phil answered, trying not to stare at Clint’s ass as he walked away. 

Key word being ‘trying.’ 

\---

Phil really hadn’t meant for this to happen. He really, really, really hadn’t meant for this to happen. He really should have invested in a better mask. 

Philip J. Coulson’s evening had started out relatively normally. Well, as normal as an evening could be for a man who spent his nights fighting crime in a pristine black suit and fedora with nothing more than a ballpoint pen and a few pairs of handcuffs. Which was, actually, relatively normal. Most nights he only ended up rounding up a few muggers and other alley roaming predators – the bank heist the previous night was certainly an exception to his usual routine. 

But tonight was special because this time, instead of saving just some generic person who’d gotten lost in the subway system or something he’d accidentally saved Clint Barton. 

Not that he was sorry about saving Clint – not at all! In fact, he was very, very glad he’d gotten to Clint when he did. The young author had clearly had a little too much to drink and exited the subway a station too soon. It wasn’t really obvious that Clint had been drinking, but Phil knew the signs – the way he constantly licked his lips and the way his gait held a little more swagger than usual. But apparently Phil wasn’t the only person to pick up on this. 

Phil had seen the figures in a secluded alley way, two taller men holding a shorter one against the wall. Phil had been unable to make out exactly what was happening under the cover of darkness and had moved closer, pulling down his mask and adjusting his fedora carefully. He paused at the entrance to the alleyway, taking a moment to listen in on the conversation. 

“You’re cute, aren’t you?” a foul, oily sounding voice said, making Phil’s skin crawl. He could almost hear the sadistic grin in the man’s tone. 

“Get your hand off me,” a voice growled – and this was when Phil realized who the victim was – closely followed by a loud slap of skin on skin. 

“Think you’re tough, do you?” the other unidentified man hissed, his voice gruff, like he’d been gurgling particularly sharp rocks. “But you know what? I bet you’re secretly a complete cockslut.” 

“He’s overcompensating, isn’t he?” the oily voiced man snickered. “I’m sure you’ll be begging for it by the time – ”

Phil decided that it was probably time for him to stop freaking out about the fact that it was _Clint_ being attacked and time for him to actually do something about it. 

Of course, when he rounded the corner he met by a sight he hadn’t exactly been expecting. Oily Voice was curled up in a small ball on the ground clutching at his genitals and howling curses while Gruff Voice’s face looked more than a little purple as Clint held him in a secure chokehold. Phil just kind of stood there awkwardly as Clint let go of his attacker once the man had fully passed out, the other one still curled up on the ground like a roly poly bug. 

“Hey, you!” Clint yelled, bringing Phil back out of his stupor. “If you’re here to try anything, I’d suggest – Oh.”

Phil stepped backwards, preparing to escape before Clint somehow recognized him – however, in his rush he forgot to take into account that taking a step backwards removed him from the convenient cover of shadows and put him directly into the light of the street lamp. He froze in place as Clint bounded towards him, stopping right in front of him, just inside the glare of the street lamp. 

“Oh my god, I didn’t realize – were you going to try and save me?” Clint asked, a hint of laughter in his voice. “You know, if you had come just a little bit earlier I would have been happy to let you save me from their evil clutches.” 

Phil opened his mouth to reply, but then remembered that, shit, if he said anything Clint would recognize his voice immediately. He really wanted to say something though. If only he could –  
An idea dawned on him. Phil opened his mouth and did his best impression of a British accent. 

“Oh, I don’t know,” he said, doing his best to keep calm and not stutter embarrassingly. “I have a bit of a weakness for men who can handle themselves in a fight.” 

“You’re British? Interesting,” Clint replied, studying Phil curiously. “I had you pegged as one of those super patriotic, ‘I’m doing this for my country’ vigilante types.” 

“Sorry, I’m a little unimpressive, aren’t I?” Phil responded, extremely thankful that his ability to quote along with every single new Doctor Who episode had made his fake British accent actually somewhat believable. 

“Not at all, Mr. Agent,” Clint said, leaning in a little closer, a flirtatious smile on his lips. “You’re much more handsome than I expected.” 

“You know, you’re much less traumatized than I would expect for someone who was just almost raped,” Phil blurted out, his words somehow completely bypassing his mind to mouth filter. 

“Yeah, well, it’s not like this is the first time,” Clint said curtly, his tone much more snappish and staccato than before, clearly cutting off that line of conversation. 

“Ah, why don’t I walk you home then?” Phil asked, trying to smooth over the conversation at least somewhat. 

“I think I’ve already proven that I can take care of myself,” Clint replied, raising one eyebrow at Phil skeptically. 

“I know, but please humor me,” Phil said, a slight smile on his face. “I need to feel like I’ve done something of use tonight.”

“You know, my friend thinks you just do this for the attention,” Clint responded, frowning, a skeptical expression on his face. 

“Oh, I’m sorry – that wasn’t what I was trying to – ” Phil sputtered, his cheeks turning pink under his mask. “I can just leave now, if you want.”

“Oh, _I_ don’t think that,” Clint replied quickly, smiling now. “Just my friend does. I’ve been looking through all of the old news reports and every time you leave before any of the people you save get to thank you or even see you very well. That doesn’t seem very selfish to me.” 

“Maybe that’s just to increase my air of mystery for the papers,” Phil retorted, although he was still blushing under Clint’s intrigued and slightly adoring gaze. 

“If that was it, you wouldn’t have bothered to try and deny my blind admiration,” Clint pointed out, still smiling at Phil in that way that did horrible things to the butterflies in his stomach. “I think that you’re just genuinely a nice guy.” 

“Well, I think you’re too trusting for your own good,” Phil replied, and it really irked him how Clint normally wasn’t this trusting – it’d taken him months to even tell Phil what his real first name was, not his penname (Francis Hawkeye) – and yet for some reason Clint was willing to spill his guts to some masked stranger off the street. 

“Walk me home?” Clint asked, peering up at Phil through his long blonde-brown eyelashes. 

Phil let out a little huff of annoyance but fell into step beside Clint anyways. 

\---

“Good morning,” Clint chirped happily, sitting down in the chair across from Phil at their customary spot in the coffee shop on Wednesday. 

“You’re looking upbeat today,” Phil replied, not looking up from his laptop. “Something happen?”

“Yes!” Clint exclaimed, pulling out his own laptop and starting it up. “I finished outlining the plot for my next novel, _and_ I met The Agent.”

“You met The Agent?” Phil asked, trying to sound a bored as possible, but unable to keep at least a little bit of his eagerness out of his tone. “Was he actually a selfish asshole like I predicted?”

“No, he wasn’t,” Clint retorted, shooting Phil an annoyed look. “He was really nice and cute, too.” 

“Ah,” Phil replied, trying to tamp down on the irrational surge of jealousy he felt welling up in his chest. 

Clint was talking about _him_ for god’s sake! Admittedly, Phil’s alter ego The Agent was generally a lot cooler than just plain old Phil the Editor, but still. Really, it was just enforcing the fact that Phil was just too boring for Clint to ever take a serious interest in him. Not that he couldn’t dream. In a way, flirting with Clint while he was The Agent was just him dreaming. 

“You know, he was probably just pretending to be considerate in order to get into your pants,” Phil continued, still half hiding behind in laptop in case Clint decided to throw something at him (not that the laptop would actually protect him if Clint really wanted to hit him). 

“Why do you have to be such a pessimist?” Clint whined, pouting at Phil. “Why does everyone always have to have some sort of ulterior motive in your mind?”

“Because I, unlike you, have to deal with all of the people who get in the way of publishing your books, while you just have to write the fairytales,” Phil retorted, looking up at Clint over his laptop screen. “You know, I think I liked you better when you were still overly skeptical of everyone.” 

“I still am,” Clint replied, stirring his coffee. “I dunno. There’s just something about this guy… He kind of reminds me of you, actually.” 

“The mysterious vigilante who’s been terrorizing the city reminds you of _me_?” Phil said incredulously, shooting Clint his best ‘What are you talking about?’ look while trying to keep a lid on his internal panic. “That’s ridiculous.” 

“Look, he just does, okay?” Clint sighed, taking another sip of his coffee. “I can’t put my finger on why, exactly, but he does.” 

“How much have you been sleeping lately?” Phil asked, a hint of concern in his voice. “You’re probably just blurring everything together in your mind because of your sleep deprivation.” 

“Oh, whatever,” Clint muttered, rolling his eyes. 

Phil resisted the urge to sigh in relief. Another bullet dodged. He really should be more careful in the future about avoiding Clint while he was out playing superhero. 

\---

Then again, Phil was never very good about doing what he should when Clint was involved. Which was the reason he found himself perched on Clint’s balcony clutching a bouquet of assorted flowers two days later. Now that he was thinking about it, this was kind of stalker-ish. Sure, Clint had shown The Agent where he lived when he agreed to let him walk him home after their first meeting, but showing up uninvited on his balcony of all places…

“Well, I wasn’t expecting to find you here,” a low, smooth voice said, breaking into Phil’s distracted thoughts and almost making him flinch. “I would have dressed up if I knew I was having company.”

Phil looked over to find Clint leaning against the doorframe, the glass sliding door pushed back and an appreciative smile on his lips. Phil was momentarily distracted by the way Clint’s flannel pajama pants hung loosely on his hips, hanging a little lower than was probably decent, leaving a thin strip of skin exposed which wasn’t quite covered by his well worn t-shirt. Phil really hoped that the mask and the shadow from the brim of his fedora hid his wandering gaze from Clint’s sharp eyes. 

“Like what you see?” the author asked, slinking forward with all the grace of an alley cat, stepping out onto the balcony. 

“Who wouldn’t?” Phil replied, finding the confidence which came with hiding behind his mask and costume. “You’re devastatingly cute.” 

Clint paused for a second, shooting Phil an odd look before a sly grin spread across his face. 

“You know,” he started slowly, voice as thick as honey, “I don’t think British people actually refer to people they find attractive as ‘cute’.” 

“I’ve been in America for quite a while,” Phil said quickly, mentally berating himself. “I’ve picked up some slang. What of it?” 

“Nah, I don’t think that’s it,” Clint replied, smiling mischievously. “Bruce Wayne uses a gruff, altered voice when he’s Batman so people don’t recognize him. I think that you’re secretly an American hiding behind a fake British accent.” 

“I suppose that could be true,” Phil conceded, but he didn’t give up the ruse. “Of course, that doesn’t mean I’m going to stop.” 

“Oh, I’m not asking you to stop,” Clint said, cocking his head to the side slightly. “I just want to know if I’m right or not.” 

“What makes you think I’d actually tell you?” Phil retorted, although there was audible amusement in his tone. “I have to keep some of my secrets, you know.” 

“It was worth a try,” Clint sighed, shrugging exaggeratedly. “Now, to what do I owe this mysterious visit?” 

“Does there need to be a reason?” Phil asked, holding out the flowers to Clint. “Maybe I just wanted to see you.” 

“Maybe you did,” Clint forfeited, accepting the bouquet, “but don’t you have a city to protect right about now? You know, crime to stop, innocent civilians to save, that sort of thing?” 

“Maybe I decided to check on you because you seem to be such a trouble magnet,” Phil suggested, leaning back against the balcony railing. 

“You didn’t come to check on me yesterday,” Clint pointed out, brushing his fingers over the flower petals. 

“Maybe I didn’t want to seem desperate or stalker-ish,” Phil replied, letting his eyes roam over Clint while the other man was busy examining the flowers. 

“Well, now that we’ve established that you’re not desperate or stalker-ish, is this going to become a nightly thing?” Clint asked, a small biting his bottom lip slightly and looking at Phil expectantly in a way that made the vigilante’s heart skip a beat. 

“Do you want it to become a nightly thing?” Phil countered, trying not to make himself sound too eager or hopeful. 

“Oh, just for my personal safety, of course,” Clint replied, his tone teasing and his blue eyes sparkling. 

“Right – for your safety,” Phil repeated, laughing slightly in a way that he noticed made Clint’s pupils go a little wider. “The same time tomorrow, then?”

“It’s a date,” Clint said, making Phil blush slightly. 

Fuck, he was screwed. 

\---

“So, we’re meeting regularly now,” Clint announced as he took his customary seat across from Phil on Sunday afternoon. 

“We’ve always met regularly,” Phil replied, quirking an eyebrow at the writer. “Wednesdays and Sundays every week.” 

“Not us,” Clint said with an amused huff. “The Agent and me.” 

“Really?” Phil asked, trying to sound as uninterested as possible.

“Yep,” Clint replied, popping the p. “Every night at eleven on my balcony.” 

Phil shivered slightly, remembering standing on the balcony the previous night watching the light breeze tousle Clint’s hair gently as he leaned over the balcony, looking out at the city skyline. The silhouette of Clint’s lean body against the black night was permanently burned into Phil’s memory and he imagined coming up behind Clint, wrapping his arms around the author’s waist and burying his face into the crook of Clint’s neck, breathing in the scent of his skin. 

“On your balcony?” Phil questioned, still not looking up from his laptop screen. “How does he even get up there?” 

“I don’t know, actually,” Clint said, supporting his chin on his palms as he leaned over the table. “I’ve asked him but he just said that it was his secret.”

“And you don’t think that’s kind of creepy?” Phil asked, skepticism in his voice. “He’s not stalking you, is he?” 

“No,” Clint replied, shaking his head. “He’s been very polite about it, actually. When I first found him on my balcony he seemed kind of concerned about that. He’d leave me alone if I asked him to. Not that I want him to.”

“Just be careful,” Phil cautioned, finally looking up at Clint. 

“Aw, are you trying to protect my virtue, Coulson?” Clint asked, grinning, that damned sparkle in his eyes again. 

“Look, you don’t know anything about this guy,” the editor protested, trying to ignore the way the tips of his ears heated up at Clint’s words. “Be careful.” 

“I will be,” Clint replied, his smile softening, become a little fonder. 

“Anyway, I submitted your manuscript to Director Fury for review to approve for publishing,” Phil continued, changing the subject over to work. “After that we can start on production. I did call Rogers, though, to ask him if he’d be willing to do another cover design for you. He said he’d be interested.” 

“Yes!” Clint exclaimed, doing a little fist pump. “Steve does the _best_ covers. Is Stark working on marketing?”

“Well, we have to get Fury to actually agree to publish it first,” Phil replied, trying not to chuckle at Clint’s adorable antics. “But if we do get that far, I can probably convince him. Or you could, you know.”

“Sure,” Clint answered, still smiling widely. “It’s been a while since I exercised my charm.”

 _Yeah, right._ Phil complained to himself. _You’re_ always _exercising your charm – you just don’t realize it._

“Hey, so did you read the plot synopsis for my next book yet? The one I gave you on Wednesday?” Clint asked, taking another sip of his iced coffee. 

“I was able to look over it a bit, yes,” Phil conceded, trying to ignore the way Clint licked a stray drop of liquid off of his lower lip. “It’s… a little different from what you usually write.” 

“I suppose so,” Clint replied thoughtfully. “It’s the first story I’ve come up with that actually centers around a romance, at least. It should be an interesting challenge.”

“Are you sure that’s something you want to try? Writing romance?” Phil asked carefully, trying not to sound condescending or accusatory. 

“It’s not like I’ve never written romance before,” Clint snorted, giving Phil a look. 

“You’ve never written anything this…” Phil paused to find the right word, “… this developed before, though.” 

“I guess,” Clint replied, a small frown on his face, which Phil felt a little guilty about placing there. “How about I give you the first few chapters to review and if you feel they’re not working we can scrap the project?”

“Sure,” Phil said, trying to ignore the fact that the main romantic lead in Clint’s new book was based off of _him_. 

Not that Clint knew that, of course. Phil just hoped that Clint didn’t attempt any sex scenes. That would just be awkward. 

“Oh shit,” Clint cursed suddenly, looking down at his watch. “Jeez, sorry I’m gonna have to ditch you now, Coulson. I promised Kate that I’d meet her for archery practice approximately ten minutes from now.”

“Oh, okay,” Phil replied, trying to ignore the stupid voice in the back of his mind which was wondering if Clint would cut out on The Agent to go do archery with Kate. 

“Thanks for all the hard work recently,” Clint said, smiling brightly at Phil again as he quickly gathered all of the things together. “I really do appreciate it.”

“Anytime,” Phil said simply, savoring the final grin that Clint gave him before rushing out of the coffee shop. 

\---

“You’re late,” Clint said, a hint of disappointment in his voice as Phil hauled himself up onto the author’s balcony the next night. “I was starting to think that you’d forgotten about me.”

“How could I ever forget a man as handsome as you?” Phil replied smoothly, doing his best to cover the hitch in his voice as he shifted his weight fully onto his right leg, leaning back against the balcony railing and trying to ignore the pain building in his leg. 

“Hey, are you okay?” Clint asked, not bothering to hide the concern in his tone as his eyes flickered down between Phil’s face and his injured leg. 

“Of course. Why?” Phil responded, gritting his teeth and trying to steady his tone. 

“Don’t lie to me,” Clint said, a hint of a growl in his tone that made Phil suck in a small breath, trying to direct his blood back to his brain and away from his lower regions. “Now, what happened?” 

“I think I sprained my ankle kicking a would-be murderer in the face,” Phil admitted, blushing bright red under his mask. God that was embarrassing to admit. 

“Really?” Clint asked, clearly trying to hold in his laughter. 

“Yes, really,” Phil sighed. “You can go ahead and laugh.” 

“I’m not gonna laugh,” Clint protested, although he couldn’t help the wide grin that spread over his face. “I think that’s a pretty heroic way of injuring yourself, actually. Me, I broke my wrist just by tripping over an uneven part of the sidewalk.” 

“I don’t know if I believe that,” Phil replied, a small smile on his own face now. “You were pretty well coordinated when you were fighting off those two guys when I first met you.” 

“Yeah, well, it’s different when I’m fighting someone,” Clint shrugged, walking over to Phil. “Anyway, we better get you inside so I can look at that ankle of yours.” 

Phil froze, the smile slipping off his face. In the almost week that he’d been meeting Clint on his balcony he’d never been inside the author’s apartment. In fact, in the whole four years he’d known Clint as his editor he’d never set foot further than the doorway. He’d imagined what it looked like, of course, in the occasional fantasies he’d had about being Clint’s boyfriend. He’d imagined trying (and probably failing) to cook for Clint in his kitchen, and he’d fantasized about falling asleep on the couch together after staying up too late watching James Bond movies. He’d imagined stumbling through the doorway to Clint’s bedroom, pressing the younger man down into the mattress of his bed, and he’d thought about dancing with Clint, just the two of them, in the living room. Phil wasn’t sure if he was excited or apprehensive about finally getting to see what Clint’s apartment really looked like. 

The editor by day, vigilante by night jumped slightly when he felt Clint’s arm wrap around his waist, breaking him out of his thoughts and helping take his weight off of his injured ankle. 

“Um, do you not want me to touch you?” Clint asked, slightly nervous, probably because of Phil’s startled reaction. “Sorry, I just thought it would be easier if I helped you walk.”

“No, it’s fine,” Phil assured him, trying to ignore his treacherous mind supplying him with thoughts of other places where it would be completely fine for Clint to touch him. “I was just wasn’t expecting it. Lead on.” 

Clint smiled at him before starting to guide him through the sliding glass door and into the living room. Their feet padded softly across the carpeted floor, and Phil felt a little guilty about all of the dirt that he was probably tracking over Clint’s clean carpet. He was only a little guilty, though, because he was still mostly focused on the author’s warm body pressed up against his side. Clint guided him to a well worn brown leather couch, gently pushing Phil down onto it and then dropping to his knees in front of him, which really was doing nothing good to Phil’s mental state. Clint, however, just went to work tugging off Phil’s left shoe and sock and rolling up his pant leg to expose the his now red and swollen ankle. 

“Ouch,” Clint muttered, wincing in sympathy as he examined Phil’s injury. “You climbed all the way up to my balcony with this?”

“We had a date,” Phil said simply, clenching his teeth as Clint poked at his ankle gently. 

“This is serious, though,” Clint replied, frowning up at Phil. 

“I’m serious about you,” Phil answered, the words slipping easily out of his mouth. 

Clint just stared up at him for a moment, his cheeks turning a light shade of pink at Phil’s words. Phil’s heart clenched a little and he felt jittery at the thought of how he was the one who’d invoked such a reaction in Clint. Clint blinked and then ducked his head again, hiding his face from Phil’s view as he continued to examine the editor’s injured ankle. 

“That’s a good line,” Clint said after a moment, swallowing thickly, a slightly waver in his voice. “Maybe I’ll have to use it in my next novel.” 

“Yeah?” Phil asked, trying to resist the urge to thread his fingers through Clint’s hair. 

“Yeah,” Clint replied, getting back to his feet abruptly. “I’m going to go get some ice for you ankle, okay?”

He was already halfway to the kitchen before Phil had a chance to respond. Phil sighed and leaned back into the couch cushions once Clint had left, hoping he hadn’t just made things irreversibly awkward between them. He really liked the time he spent with Clint like this, even if they never really did anything more than flirt. It was… nice. He could actually pretend for a time that Clint was attracted to him. 

Phil looked over as Clint walked back into the room, but instead of coming back over to him, he continued down the hall, out of Phil’s sight, however, he returned a moment later carrying a roll of bandages in addition to the bag of ice. 

“I figured it would probably be better if we secured the ice to your ankle instead of making you hold it there until your fingers started freezing off,” Clint explained, once again dropping to his knees in front of Phil, his long fingers brushing over Phil’s skin as he carefully positioned the ice pack. 

Phil let out a soft hiss as the ice touched his ankle, not entirely prepared for how cold it would be. Clint looked up at him, startled, but Phil just shook his head, so Clint went back to securing the ice pack. 

“You can rest on my couch for a while if you’d like,” Clint offered once he was finished tending to Phil’s ankle, getting up onto the couch and sitting next to the injured vigilante.

“I should probably not,” Phil replied reluctantly, not wanting to somehow risk Clint getting too close and realizing who exactly was behind the mask. 

“The city won’t fall into chaos if you’re out of commission for one night,” Clint told him, misinterpreting Phil’s reluctance to stay. “Just stay for a little while, okay?” 

“Okay,” Phil sighed after a moment, caving under the onslaught of Clint’s pleading gaze. “Just for a bit, though.” 

Of course, Phil woke up the next morning to find himself still on Clint’s couch, spooning the younger man, his arms wrapped securely around Clint’s stomach and his face buried in the author’s surprisingly soft hair. The editor had a momentary freak out before trying to extract himself from the position without waking Clint, a feat which was surprisingly difficult, especially with his still injured ankle. The swelling had at least gone down considerably from the previous night, though, which he was immensely grateful for. Hopefully it would be completely unnoticeable by the time he had to meet with Clint as Editor Coulson on Wednesday. 

He pulled open the door to leave, taking one more moment to glance back at Clint still sleeping peacefully. He felt a little guilty about just abandoning him like this before blinking in realization and pulling an extra business card and his ballpoint pen from his pocket. He scribbled a quick note on the back of the card before creeping carefully back over to Clint and placing it next to him on the couch. Satisfied that Clint wouldn’t think he’d been abandoned now, Phil left. 

\---

“I actually have proof that I met The Agent now,” Clint announced as he pulled out his seat and sat down, practically glowing with excitement. “See?”

Phil took only a brief moment to see Clint holding out the business card he’d given him a few nights ago. 

“He didn’t even give you his cell phone number,” Phil replied, looking back at his laptop and typing rapidly, doing his best to appear as uninterested as possible. 

“Oh, shut up,” Clint muttered good naturedly pouting at Phil, staring at him with those far too blue eyes again. “You’re just afraid he’s replacing you, aren’t you?”

 _More than you will ever know._ Phil thought, an uncomfortable wave of nausea sweeping through him at the thought of being replaced by his far more interesting counterpart. 

“Of course not,” Phil retorted, taking a sip of his tea. “Your Agent probably doesn’t even know the first thing about editing.” 

“Not as my editor – as my best friend,” Clint corrected, sounding a little exasperated. 

“Your best friend?” Phil blurted, looking up from his laptop to stare at Clint, trying not to let his mouth hang open. 

“Well, yeah,” Clint replied, seeming to shrink slightly, looking more insecure than Phil had ever seen him. “I mean, you _are_ my best friend, aren’t you?”

“Of course,” Phil replied quickly, trying to reassure his writer. “I just – I thought Natasha held that title.” 

“Nah,” Clint said, a lopsided smile on his face, clearly relieved. “Nat’s in a category all her own.”

Phil wasn’t entirely sure if that was a good thing or a bad thing. 

“Speaking of Natasha, have you and her managed to convince Fury to publish my new book?” Clint asked, changing the subject, steering it into more stable territory. 

“He approved it yesterday,” Phil answered, smiling at the way Clint’s eyes lit up at his words. 

“Yes!” Clint exclaimed, grinning. 

“But,” Phil interrupted, giving Clint a look, “he says he wants you to change the title to something a little simpler.”

“Really?” Clint whined, shooting his editor a pleading look. “You know I hate trying to come up with titles.” 

“Natasha actually sent a list of ideas,” Phil informed him, pulling a sheet of paper out of his laptop case with ten names typed on it. “I personally like the third one.” 

“‘The Blank’,” Clint said, testing the name out, letting it roll over his tongue. “It’s not bad. Better than just ‘Twenty Seven’ at least.” 

Phil was silent for a few more minutes as Clint carefully looked over the list that Natasha had sent, testing out each title both aloud and silently in his head. 

“Yeah, I think you’re right,” Clint finally said, looking up from the paper. “Let’s go with number three.” 

“You should know by now that I’m always right,” Phil teased, making a note of Clint’s decision on the list, circling number three. 

“So, what did you think of the first few chapters of my new story?” Clint asked, both reluctance and eagerness in his tone. “Do you think it could work?”

“Surprisingly, yes,” Phil replied, looking over at Clint. “It’s – really good, actually. My only suggestion so far is that, because of the time-skips, instead of having me edit this in individual chapters you should probably write out the whole manuscript so I can edit the composite.” 

“Great!” Clint replied, grinning goofily with excitement. “I’ll get right to it, then.”

“Just don’t forget about your other book, though,” Phil instructed, looking at Clint sternly. “Our number one priority is getting your current project to print and sold, so we can, you know, earn enough money to keep feeding ourselves.”

“Yeah, yeah, Coulson,” Clint responded, still grinning, as he stood up from his chair and started gathering up his stuff. “I’ll be off writing. See you Sunday.” 

Phil was in too good a mood that morning to worry about someone catching him checking out Clint’s ass as he rushed out the door. He smiled to himself. Maybe this double life thing could actually work. 

\---

Phil was doing his best to not pluck all the petals off of the single, deep red rose in his hands in his nervous state as he stood on Clint’s balcony. Clint had certainly seemed amenable to some sort of romance if their past few weeks together were any indication, but what if he was reading the situation wrong? He didn’t think he’d be able to cope if Clint was put off by his overtures and asked him to stop their little night rendezvous. These moments beat even his little coffee sessions with Clint twice a week. 

“Hey,” Clint greeted him, the soft hiss of the glass sliding door opening unable to obscure the fondness in the author’s tone. “Mmmm, it’s a lovely evening, isn’t it?”

“Yes, it is,” Phil replied, smiling just as fondly. “Not as lovely as you, though.” 

This elicited a soft chuckle from Clint, and Phil took a moment to enjoy the sound of his voice and the way the cool air brought a slight flush to the younger man’s cheeks. 

“You are such a flatterer,” Clint said, moving to lean on the balcony railing next to Phil. 

“Only to you. I wasn’t lying when I said I was serious about you,” Phil responded softly, brining up one of his gloved hands to stroke his fingertips across Clint’s cheek, presenting the gorgeous red rose clutched in his other hand to Clint. 

Clint leaned into his gentle touch instinctively, his eyes half closed as Phil’s voice washed over him. Phil was extremely thankful that his mask only covered the upper part of his face and not his mouth as he leaned in slowly and pressed his lips to Clint’s in a brief, chaste kiss. However, when he pulled back Clint was blinking at him in surprise, an unusual tension in his shoulders. 

“Oh,” the author said softly, his cheeks bright red. “I – you’re wonderful, you really are, but I kind of – I’m kind of in love with someone else already, a coworker of mine.” 

Phil was pretty sure that his heart shattered into so many tiny pieces in that moment that he’d absolutely never _ever_ be able to put it back together again. He’d thought he actually had a chance with Clint in this guise – that Clint was actually as attracted to him as he was to Clint. Oh, he should have seen this coming, though. Clint was in love with a coworker – it _had_ to be Natasha. Phil couldn’t think of anyone else it could be. That’s what Clint meant when he said that Natasha was in a category of her own, didn’t he? Fuck, he was such an _idiot!_

“Oh – shit – Clint, I’m so sorry – I just – ” Phil stuttered, backing away from the author. “I’ll just leave now.” 

Phil turned and vaulted over the balcony railing, disappearing from sight, unable to make out whatever it was that Clint was yelling after him. 

\---

Phil almost didn’t go to his meeting with Clint that Sunday. He really, seriously considered calling in sick instead of going to face the man who had utterly and completely rejected him four days earlier. He just couldn’t bring himself to avoid Clint anymore, though. He’d already stopped their little late night balcony sessions and after having grown used to seeing Clint so often going cold turkey like this was quite a shock to his system. He just needed to see Clint again, even if he couldn’t have him. 

He entered the small coffee shop to find Clint already there for once. Clint was never at their meetings before Phil was – mostly because Phil always arrived at least fifteen minutes early. Phil was actually running a little late (he was only ten minutes early) but Clint still shouldn’t have beaten him. Phil decided not to dwell on it too much, though. Instead he merely slid into the seat across from Clint at the table and began getting out his laptop like usual. 

“Good morning,” Phil said finally after Clint made no verbal acknowledgement of his presence. 

“Oh, um, hi,” Clint stammered, glancing up at Phil briefly before looking back down at his coffee sullenly. 

The editor frowned as he took in Clint’s unusually pasty skin tone, also noting the tired look to his eyes, and the defeated slump of his shoulders. What was going on here? 

“How’s the new story going?” Phil asked after a moment, breaking the heavy silence that had fallen over them. 

“Badly,” Clint sighed, rubbing his hands across his face. “I think I might have to scrap it completely. I just – I can’t get into it. Maybe you’re right. I shouldn’t have tried writing romance.” 

“What are you talking about?” Phil exclaimed, staring at Clint. “Those first chapters you gave me were brilliant! You can’t just throw this away!”

“Yes, I can, and yes, I will,” Clint snapped, glaring at Phil over his coffee, surprising Phil. 

They lapsed into silence again. Phil’s mind was racing, trying to figure out what had just happened. Clint never just gave up on a project – not without writing out the entire thing first. For him to give up after just a few chapters was completely unlike him. God, was this something he had done? Had the way he’d practically molested Clint that night disturbed him so much that he’d affected the author’s writing? Fuck, Phil felt like a horrible person. 

“Um, well, we can talk about that later, I guess,” Phil mumbled awkwardly, shifting in his chair. “I, ah, have the cover designs for _The Blank_ here for you to look at, though.” 

He slid his laptop across the small table to Clint who took it carefully, pulling it into his lap and clicking through the pictures in the open folder slowly. The silence was making Phil nervous and uncomfortable so he stood up to go get a drink. Thankfully, it looked like Clint was finished looking through the cover designs by the time Phil came back with his plain, black coffee. 

“I like the second one,” Clint told him, an almost-smile on his lips. 

“Really? I thought you’d like the first one best,” Phil replied, turning the computer screen a bit in order to see the image more clearly. 

“As much as I like the color purple, I think white is probably more appropriate for this book,” Clint said, and yes, that was actually a smile on his lips. A small one, but a smile none the less. 

They discussed the merits of each different cover for a while longer before moving onto marketing and sales. Phil had actually managed to get Tony Stark to work with them on marketing again which seemed to lighten Clint’s mood a little more. They’d be meeting with him on Monday to discuss more in depth how they’d be advertizing the book, and by the time their meeting was done, Clint was almost back to his normal self. Not quite, but almost. 

“Hey, thanks, Coulson,” Clint said as he stood up from the table to leave, giving Phil a warm smile. “See you on Monday when we meet with Stark, then.”

“See you Monday,” Phil repeated, nodding. 

He watched Clint walk over to the door, weaving in between the tables and the other café goers. However, when Clint reached the door instead of exiting the coffee shop, he turned back to look at Phil. Phil blushed at being caught staring as Clint made his way back through the small shop to stand in front of him at the table. 

“Okay, I’ve had enough of that,” Clint announced, hands on his hips. 

“Had enough of what?” Phil asked, completely lost. 

“This!” Clint exclaimed, gesturing to him. “I mean, I finally told you on Wednesday night that I’m in love with you and then you don’t do anything about it! Nothing!”

“What are you talking about?” Phil said, staring at Clint like he’d lost his mind. “I didn’t see you on Wednesday night.” 

“Oh god, can you stop pretending you’re not The Agent?” Clint sighed, crossing his arms over his chest. “I’ve known since you broke you wrist and The Agent was mysteriously absent for the next week and a half.”

“But that was – ” Phil replied, his eyes wide. 

“Before you started climbing up onto my balcony every night, yes, I know,” Clint snapped, frowning slightly. “Look, when I rejected you last Wednesday it was because I was trying to tell you that I didn’t want just a one night stand, okay? I thought if I told you that I was in love with you that you might reveal your ‘secret identity’ to me finally. Were you really just after sex this entire time?” 

“What? No!” Phil exclaimed, his mouth hanging open. “I thought you were talking about Natasha when you said you were in love with a coworker!”

Clint stared at him for a few moments before nearly keeling over in a fit of laughter. Phil’s cheeks grew redder and redder the longer Clint laughed, until finally the writer managed to regain control of himself, wiping tears out of the corners of his eyes. 

“Oh god, you really thought I was talking about _Natasha_?” Clint asked, grinning at Phil. 

“Well, you did say that she was in a category all her own,” Phil replied, still blushing heavily. 

“Yeah, that’s because she’s like my sister,” Clint replied, smiling lopsidedly. “We really are dysfunctional, aren’t we?”

“We could be worse,” Phil answered, also smiling now. 

“Come on – let’s get out of here,” Clint said, glancing around the coffee shop at all of the people who were not so subtly sneaking glances at the two of them. “I know a good pizza place a couple of blocks down.”

“It’s a date.”


End file.
